


you know i love the players (and you love the game)

by notcaycepollard



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Napoleon has a lot of wanting going on, OT3, Wimbledon - Freeform, bossy Gaby is best Gaby, ot3: smol/tall/smirky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:39:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5408498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This mission, it's Solo's engagement ring that Gaby is wearing, and Solo is perfectly pleased with the situation, until-</p><p>"I say," Waverly murmurs, "the three of you certainly don't let up, do you? There are other covers we could work with here."</p>
            </blockquote>





	you know i love the players (and you love the game)

This mission, it's Solo's engagement ring that Gaby is wearing, and Solo is perfectly pleased with the situation, until-

"I say," Waverly murmurs, "the three of you certainly don't let up, do you? There  _are_ other covers we could work with here." Solo doesn't let himself frown, just glances easily at Gaby, smooths a hand down the linen of his suit jacket. Gaby raises one eyebrow from behind her enormous, pastel-framed sunglasses.

"It was expedient," she shrugs, sips her Pimms, licks glossily painted cherry lips, uncrosses and recrosses her legs. "It's Illya on the line here. We're just spectators. Until we're not." She's in a cotton frock, lemon yellow and white stripes and crisply cut away in a halter, and Solo can't stop looking at her shoulders, the tan from Istanbul and their next assignment in the Canary Islands. They've only been in England for a week, not enough time for it to fade under weak English skies, and the English weather's not so bad anyway, this time of year. He thinks, anyway, longingly, of the Côte d'Azur, of a yacht and a case of very well-chilled Lillet and a lot of ice, of how Gaby and Illya would gleam under the Mediterranean sun. Perhaps they'll be assigned to Cannes, a glittery undercover mission. Perhaps he could steal them away to Saint-Tropez, just for a weekend. He's very good, after all, at stealing what he wants.

"Darling," Gaby says, "darling," and it's an endearment she only ever uses when she's wearing one of their rings. He blinks, snaps back to her face, can't see her eyes through the dark lenses but knows they're sharp. He sips his own Pimms, wishes for something stronger. Illya's walking onto the court now, all in white, and Solo can barely look at him for how he shines, even in this tepid English summer.

"What's his cover?" Waverly asks again, idle as only the English upper class know how to be, and Solo blinks again, gathers himself.

"Janne Ahlström. Wild card entrant, unseeded, placed well in the Swedish Open the last three years. Powerful slice serve, uneven topspin shot. Should create enough interest to get us in."

"Us?"

"My fiancée," Solo says very blandly, lays his hand over Gaby's. "Agneta Ahlström. Janne's baby sister, a rising tennis star in her own right. Once he's in, he'll of course introduce us to his new friends. And I, the wealthy financier of this family empire. Looking to fund a new coach who'd do _anything_ to improve the Ahlström performance."

"I am impressed," Waverly concedes, gets to his feet and tugs his jacket lightly into place. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be off before the match starts. Gaby, as always, a delight. Oh - your Russian does  _know_ how to play tennis, does he?"

Illya does. At least, Solo _thinks_ he does. He can never, really, be sure.

 

+

 

Illya, it turns out, does know how to play tennis, but what he knows far more intimately than tennis is rage-fuelled violence, and when he snaps his racquet in two over one knee, flings both halves down onto the grass, storms off the court shouting, Solo can only be grateful that he's at least doing the swearing in Swedish. Gaby's not frowning, but it's a very deliberate not frowning, and Solo knows,  _knows_ , they'll be for it tonight.

He joins them in their box half an hour later, looking hang-dog, and Gaby delicately unfolds herself, gives Illya a long look over her glasses.

"Sit down," she sighs peremptorily at the end of it, and Illya sits, has the grace to look at least a little embarrassed. "I hope you're proud of yourself, now that you're disqualified."

"It was a bad call from the referee," Illya says truculently, gritting his jaw, and now is not the time for Solo to come over all romantic, he knows, but the squareness of Illya's jaw, the fierceness of his gaze, it all feels like a mistake Solo very desperately wants to make.

"A  _bad call_?" Gaby asks, turns her displeased face to Solo.

"What are you looking at  _me_ for?" he says. "I wasn't the one who threw a tantrum on court."

"You encourage it," Gaby tells him, continues to look at him disapprovingly for far longer than she'd gazed at Illya, and it feels very unfair to Solo but at least she's looking at him. "Now I will have to take over," she says, "honestly, I do all the work around here. You will both train with me tonight."

"Yes, little chop shop," Illya says, not chastened at all, and,  _yes, Gaby_ , Solo echoes, undone by her so quickly.

The steward appears in their box, and Gaby turns a bright smile to him, nods, tilts her head to Solo.

"Thank you," he says, as smoothly American as he can make it, takes the bottle of champagne, the glasses, the bowls of strawberries and fresh cream. "Janne. Agneta. Champagne?"

"What is this," Illya says distrustingly, evaluating his bowl of strawberries, and Gaby rolls her eyes.

"Traditional," she tells him, "for Wimbledon. Drink your champagne. Maybe your mood will improve."

"This is decadent West," Illya grumbles, but he eats his strawberries anyway, and Solo cannot tell which he enjoys more, the bright red smear of juice that lingers at the corner of Illya's mouth, or the smudge of cream that Gaby licks off her lower lip without hesitation. Perhaps it's the way Illya's hair is damp with sweat, darker blond at the temples, curling a little at the nape of his neck. Perhaps it's the weight of the diamond on Gaby's finger, the way in which he's able to lean in and press his fingers to her bare skin so solicitously.

(He'd have done that anyway, he thinks, and feels Illya's eyes on the way he and Gaby move together.)

 

+

 

Thanks to Waverly, they're not in a hotel this mission but in a private house, one that possibly belongs to U.N.C.L.E. or possibly just belongs to Waverly himself. Possibly there's no difference, Solo thinks, enjoys the house anyway. It's complete with a tennis court in the expansive grounds, and Gaby, as soon as they return from the stadium, changes out of her dress and into shorts, a cropped blouse, ties a scarf around her hair.

"You," she tells Illya. "Now. You  _have_ another racquet, I'm sure."

Solo drifts out to watch, carrying a glass of gin with him, and just as he'd thought, Illya and Gaby together, playing with an intensity that's close to a fight, it's so beautiful to watch it hurts. Gaby sends a volley back to Illya with such force it's like a sparring blow, gasps a little for breath, pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes, and Solo throws back his gin, swallows around the desire burning in his throat, tries very hard to act casual.

Gaby keeps playing with Illya for an hour, longer, until her serves are satisfactory even to her own standards, and then walks back into the house, drops her racquet on the floor, carelessly unbuttons her blouse.

"Solo," she says, snaps her fingers, throws herself down into a chair, and Solo is quick, now, to get on his knees in front of her, still in his shirt and tie. Gaby has a line of sweat wet between her breasts, and Solo  _wants_ , more than ever, wants something he can't steal.

When Illya walks in, he picks up Gaby's racquet, holds it for a moment and pauses, looks carefully at the tableau.

"You," Gaby tells him, "get to  _watch_ , Illya, and perhaps next time you will  _control your temper_."

"Can I-" Solo asks, pauses before unbuttoning her shorts, and she nods, lifts her hips up to let him pull them off.

"Just your fingers," she says, "I want to see your face," and it's not what Solo wanted, he's wanted to press his mouth against her all day, to sink to his knees and lift her dress and lick into her slow and easy and confident, but using his fingers, fucking her until she loses her composure and twists her nails into his shoulder, it's not exactly a hardship.

She comes once, gives him a look that says to keep going, glares at Illya over his shoulder.

"Illya," she says, her breath hitching. "You almost-  _fuck_ , Solo- you almost threw the mission today."

"No," Illya murmurs, and Gaby tenses.

"No?" she asks.

"No. There was talk, in the changing room. The target is not in the men's singles. Not the coach. It is Katerina Markova."

"So it was your plan all along," Gaby says, makes an evaluative face. "Eliminate yourself, draw attention to your sister. Not bad. Although I would prefer you consult us next time, thank you."

"Yes," Illya agrees, in a tone that says, next time will happen exactly the same way. He flicks his gaze down, watches Solo's fingers working in and out of Gaby, licks his lips. "You can do better, Cowboy," he tells Solo, and Gaby laughs, throws a tennis ball at Illya.

"Cheeky," she says, "but you can do better, Solo, he's right."

"Excuse me for the distraction," Solo shrugs, "if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not combine mission talk with downtime."

"Such a  _liar_ ," Gaby says fondly, strokes his cheek then slaps it lightly. "Come on, Solo, Illya's done his training," and that's enough to have him push another finger into her, to press his thumb hard against her clit, to fuck her until his wrist is cramping and Gaby's not moaning but yelling German invectives, pulsing around his fingers.

"Better," Illya says as if he's rating it, and Gaby gets to her feet, casts off her sweat-damp blouse, her cotton brassiere, her headscarf.

"I'm taking a bath," she tells them, disappears into the vast bathroom, and Solo gets to his feet, loosens his tie.

"Would you like a game of chess?" Illya says after a moment.

"No," Solo says very deliberately. "No, I wouldn't."

"Good," Illya tells him, stands up, crowds him up against the wall. "Neither do I," and slams his mouth against Solo's hard enough that his head bumps painfully back into the wall.

"If you're fucking out there," Gaby calls through the bathroom door as Solo is stripping Illya deftly out of his tennis whites, "you'd better wait for me before either of you finish."

They don't wait, but that's fine, Napoleon thinks, because Illya uses his mouth better than he uses his temper, and Gaby gets the best of it, between the two of them.

 

+

 

Gaby, in a white tennis dress, her legs long and bare and teasing, is an even more blinding sight than Illya, and Solo can tell that the both of them are equally dazzled by it, need dark glasses to maintain composure even as the sky clouds over.

"I was thinking of a jaunt up to Saint-Tropez," Solo admits, pouring Illya another drink, and Illya shrugs, sips his drink, tracks Gaby's movement on the court.

"Too hot," he says. "And our English man will never allow it."

"If we finish this mission well-"

"Still too hot," Illya grouses, and Solo lays his fingers, cool from the ice of the champagne, on the inside of his wrist.

"Really?" he asks, drags his fingers up just a little, pushes at the crisp cotton of Illya's shirt cuff.

"Hmm," Illya hums, goes silent, and Solo thinks, maybe, he's convinced Illya, at least, to let himself be stolen away.

The mission does go well, as Solo knew it would. Gaby's always been the best agent of them, extracts the information guilelessly from Markova and places sixth in the tournament to boot, doesn't even require back-up. Solo can tell Illya's looking for someone to punch, though, somewhere to expend his nervous energy. He pulls him into a convenient bathroom, smacks him open-handed and provokes him neatly into a fight that would have ended, three months ago, in property damage and mutually clenched jaws but results, now, in Illya winding his fingers into Solo's hair and thrusting into his mouth, groaning Russian nonsense in a voice that sounds close to tender.

"And where have you been," Gaby demands when they reappear, Solo smoothing his hair back into place, and he smirks.

"Teamwork," he tells her, lets her lean up, press a kiss to his cheek.

"Always leaving me the hard work," she whispers into his ear, touches Illya's arm just a little proprietary, glances across at Waverly.

"Well," he says. "Good work, chaps. And lady, of course. That concludes this mission, I'd say."

"We want a vacation," Solo says, very easily, and Waverley blinks.

"A holiday?"

"Yes," Illya says, unexpected. "A holiday. Three successful missions, you give us a holiday."

"Well," Waverly says again. "Well. I suppose that's not so very out of the question. Where to?"

"Villefranche-sur-Mer," Gaby tells him. "Because you're about to send us to Monaco, and it can wait a week. We go to Villefranche, and then to Monaco." Waverly gives her a startled look.

"I was, in fact, about to send you to Monaco, Miss Teller, so for that, you get three days."

"Five," she bargains.

"Four, and that's the end of it."

"Four," she agrees. "And a hotel suite paid for by U.N.C.L.E."

"Three suites, surely?" Waverly asks, very dry, glances between the three of them, smiles slightly. "No," he says, "you certainly don't let up, do you? Enjoy Monaco."

"I thought it was too hot for a vacation?" Solo teases Illya, as they gather their things. The first drops of rain land, dark on the wool of Illya's suit, and he looks up, smirks a little.

"Hmm," he says again. "Too hot. Too decadent. But you  _want_ , Cowboy, so we will go."

 

+

 

The four days they're in Villefranche, Gaby wears both their rings and barely much else, calls them both darling in a way that might be about no mission at all, kisses Solo with lips that taste of salt water and bitter aperitifs and sweet summer cherries. _Illya_ kisses Solo with the taste of Gaby on his mouth, and that's almost better. The French sun is blissfully hot, hotter than England, and they all go languid under the warmth of it, even Illya. 

"Next time," Illya tells him, "we're going somewhere cold."

"Finland," Gaby suggests. "You can go and roll in the snow and enjoy your Russian hardiness, and we can lie in the sauna."

It's not a bad idea.

"Next time," Illya says again, "it is my turn to be the fiancé."

Solo supposes that's fair. They take turns, on mission.

Off mission, they don't take turns at all, and when Solo catches the way Illya kisses Gaby, or Illya watches Solo lean in to touch Gaby light and possessive and easy, Solo knows why, knows how, knows that it works. Solo hasn't stolen any of this, paid for it square, and is startled to discover he enjoys it more for the earning.

**Author's Note:**

> yes obvs: blank space provided the title


End file.
